


after the boys of summer have gone

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-15
Updated: 2007-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Band Camp is the only thing he wants to think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after the boys of summer have gone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: the slutrick ficathon. Thanks to all of those band-campers on my f-list who supplied me with the info that I needed. Most, if not all, of the locations and ideas were inspired by them.

Patrick stood clutching his guitar-case and duffle-bag, gazing blankly at the buildings trying to hide among the trees. Typical summer camp at its campiest, just like he always saw on TV; he made a face, turning to look at his mother's worried expression.

"Sure you want to do this?" she asked softly. If he had made a negative response, she would not have hesitated to bundle him up back in the truck and head them back home. Patrick felt a curl of terror in his stomach, being in a strange place with so many strange people, his own comfortable house and family so far away.

Then he thought about the music.

How amazing it would be to immerse himself fully in sound, to have it pervade his molecules and permeate his skin. He looked at his mother and made a long, slow nod, a single dip of his head. His mother gazed at him expectantly; Patrick took a deep breath and set his load on the packed earth of the camp center driveway, hands clutching each other as he labored to find the words.

"I'll d-do it." His voice was so low and hoarse, but she looked pleased. It had been so long since she had heard his voice; she seemed on the brink of tears and Patrick looked away, taking up his luggage again as she fumbled in her hand-bag for a tissue. The therapist had been overjoyed when he had indicated his wish to go to band-camp. She had waxed eloquent about how the change of scenery would be good for him, maybe to help his brain heal even more. He had simply looked at her, feeling vaguely amused as she grinned massively at him.

"If there's anything, Patrick, _anything_ at all," his mother now stressed, "You can call me or your father. Or the doctor. Ok?"

"Ok." He looked away as she stuffed the crumpled tissue back into her purse and hitched at his case and bag, wanting to be free of her and yet feeling the need to hide behind her figurative skirts. In all actuality, he was long-tired of being treated as if he was made of glass. When he had first come out of the operation, he had wanted to be whole again; when that had not happened immediately, Patrick had lashed out at everyone, frustrated that his brain still wasn't sending out the right signals, his fingers curling into claws when he wanted them to press down firmly on the strings of the guitar. His father and brother had taken the brunt of Patrick's resentful, speechless rage, because of their seamless ability to play music, plucking the strings while Patrick lay in the hospital bed and stared at them with burning eyes.

"You'll play again soon," his father had promised and Patrick had turned his head away to hide his jealous tears. Patrick had wanted to re-learn music _before_ he became reacquainted with walking again. The doctors had been amused by this until Patrick simply refused to go to physical therapy without his guitar nearby.

"You are one stubborn little bastard," his favorite nurse would say fondly as she wheeled him around, the guitar clutched firmly to his chest. Every time she said that, Patrick would hum mockingly at her, not trusting his brain to convey the right sharp phrases to his mouth; not trusting his mouth to form the words properly. Some part of his repaired brain remembered what it was like to keep in key and Nurse Rojas would hum along with him, chuckling as he snapped a string or tapped the body of the guitar in time to their wordless song.

His mother now stepped close and brushed long wisps of his hair out of his face, tugging his hat back so that she could look in his eyes.

"It'll be fine," she said softly and pinched his nose, smiling. "You'll be fine."

"Hmm," Patrick agreed and gave her a lopsided smile.

 **:: ::**

It _was_ fine, actually; a whole lot better than he had assumed it would have been.

It was the first time Patrick had been at a camp, much less a band-camp. He had not quite known what to expect; and it seemed the other kids didn't know quite what to make of him. They stared at him, miles and miles of strange eyes, all from different schools and academies, laughing as they re-formed into distinct sub-groups by the instruments and what band-sections they were in. Some of them were happily greeting kids they recognized from the year before. Patrick, who had not been to school since his operation, felt out of place among the din, grimly steadying the fork and knife in his hands as he ate dinner that first night, listening to the buzz of conversation as it excluded him. He felt smaller than he actually was and he stifled an urge to sigh as he ate.

"Hi," a taller boy with enviable curly brown hair said, the first time they gathered the jazz band campers together. "I think we used to be in the same school? And then you transferred? I'm Joe."

Patrick blinked at him as they took a seat and the counselor in charge began to talk, handing out sheets of music for them to share while they tuned their instruments. Joe was chattering happily beside him, recounting episodes from last summer's band-camp and sharing anecdotal snippets about the different schools that attended the camp; Patrick waited for a break until he could finally say what he had been gathering in his mind.

"I didn't... transfer." He spoke heavily, ruthlessly squashing down the self-pity as Joe gazed at him. "I had... surgery. Brain."

"Oh wow," Joe breathed, looking at Patrick's forehead as if he could see past the layer of bone into the gray mass. "Wow. How different do you feel, dude?"

Patrick thought about this as they went through one song, Joe waiting almost breathlessly for the answer. As he did, he noted that playing with a large group like that was so different from playing with his father and brother; his ears straining to match notes and tempo. The melding of different personalities of all the musicians, together through their instruments, was a captivating experience. Patrick was getting a little tired, but he was secretly delighted.

"Not sure," he finally said after the second song and Joe looked a little disappointed. "Sometimes... I feel smarter? But it... doesn't come out... like that."

Joe perked up considerably at this, not paying attention as the counselor began a set of drills, whispering at Patrick with medical knowledge he had gleaned from his father.

He was nice, Patrick decided, listening to the way Joe spoke. When he had been locked away in silence by his own brain after his operation, he had found himself paying attention to people's speech, cataloging the idiosyncrasies; Joe here, he had a _cute_ way of talking, lisping slightly as Patrick did himself when he wasn't concentrating, curling his mouth around his letters in a different way. Cute; that was the only way Patrick could describe it.

"Um, Patrick?" One of the jazz-counselors crouched next to his seat, looking up at him. Patrick frowned. "We were told to keep a special eye on you. Do you feel tired?"

"No," Patrick said shortly. He hated this. He didn't want a _special eye_.

"Dizzy?"

"No."

"I guess if he feels any way weird, he'll tell me, Jon," Joe put in helpfully, leaning into their conversation. "And I'll tell you."

Jon flicked a contemplative gaze in between the two of them and then nodded. He straightened up, yelling at the group to try some improvisation and Patrick was taken-aback, stilling his fingers on the strings. Jon noticed while still yelling; he strode back over, smiling a little down at Patrick.

"Just go with how you feel. Go on," he said gently and Patrick closed his eyes... and tried.

And smiled.

 **:: ::**

"Check out the marching band," Joe said to him as they wandered around after their first grueling session (that was what Jon said to call it, 'session'. Patrick liked the sliding sound of all the _esses_ found in the word and whispered it to himself often. Joe, to his credit, disregarded this). They had been to the dorms and hung around in the stifling heat of the low-ceilinged rooms until Joe had dragged him back outside, to walk lazily in the late evening sunlight. "Fucking Navy SEALS, man."

Patrick was still muttering _sessions_ when Joe grabbed onto his arm, right below the elbow, and gave what could only be described as a girlish squeal.

"Look, look, see that guy bossing everyone around? Andy Hurley. Fuck, fuck, I _always_ wanted to jam with him."

"I know... that name," Patrick said, letting go of _sessions_ and gazing across the flat, sun burnt field, one hand shading his tired eyes. Kids were running around the field, most of them with their instruments, while a slight dude with glasses and a frown chased after them.

"Who doesn't? Man, this is the one time I wish I was in Marching. Ok. Moment over. Marching band is like _torture_."

Patrick thought about the coordination needed to play and walk in a complicated pattern at the same time and silently agreed with Joe, smiling slightly at him. Andy Hurley's high voice floated back to them and Patrick stored it in his memory, right beside _sessions_.

 **:: ::**

"This gets better, every fucking day," Joe groaned through a mouthful of suspicious canned meat; Patrick poked at his vegetables with a jaundiced eye and took a hesitant forkful. He was always hesitant, and he'd been having this nearly every day for a week. Yet he had surprised himself when he fell into a comfortable routine fairly quickly: Get up early, long before everyone else, escape into the cool morning air for a little walk around the dew-flecked field, a slow stroll that was stumbling and yet free; go back with time to spare, enough to be in the showers first so no-one would stare at the long thin scar he hid under his hat; finish just as everyone else was yawning awake; find Jon to borrow his phone and send a quick text to his mother, _I'm ok_ so that she wouldn't drive down here in a panic.

Then he would have a day of enjoyable, excruciating, exhilarating _sessions_. He could literally feel his brain forming new connections; well, maybe not, but it was alright to dream. He was sure if he told his therapist that, she would laugh in delight, like a small child.

There was only one thing he didn't like about sessions: at times, they sang. Patrick remembered singing with his father and how smoothly the words used to float on top of the notes; he was absolutely sure that he would not be able to do it now. So, despite Jon's pleading eyes (which Patrick thought were very very pretty) he refused to sing. He would stumble awkwardly over everything, over himself, for maybe the rest of his life. He knew this for a fact; he simply did not want to subject the music to that.

Now, though, he was blinking at Joe's heartfelt declarations of love to his food. He nudged Joe in the ribs, clutching his fork with pained, happy fingers, but Joe was staring over at where Andy had strolled in with some of the Marching band section, chatting a mile-a-minute with a dark-haired kid who was definitely not a camper. Looking closely at him, Patrick decided that he was only short, _like_ a kid; He was definitely Andy's age, his tanned face filled with a sharp amusement, like he was in on a joke with Life itself. This dude was walking with his arm slung companionably around Andy's shoulders, waggling fingers at Jon and the other counselors and letting out big bursts of nasal laughter.

"That dude is Wentz. Pete," Joe clarified for Patrick with a strange mixture of admiration and annoyance. Patrick rummaged for a little bit in his memory, tapping out a slow beat on his peas with the fork.

"Angel?" He managed, knowing that was not the right phrase at all; there was no way _that_ one was even remotely connected to Heaven, not the way his lips tilted in a smirk as he sat with Andy and the other counselors and stole a plate of food.

"Arma Angelus, yeah. And he plays soccer for state." Joe sounded as if the two pursuits should never meet. It _was_ odd, Patrick concluded, a mixture of rock and jock. Patrick dragged up a recollection, slightly fragmented because it had been stored before his operation, of going to a soccer match somewhere with his brother. This person, Pete, he had been playing on the large flat field; his hair had been blond and awful, his face had been creased in concentration, but the dark humor had been present, as it was now.

It was interesting to note how clear this memory of him seemed to be.

"Why is he here?" Patrick asked, glad that this sentence was short enough to get out in one go. Joe lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, his eyes fixed on Andy and Pete. "He plays...an instrument?"

"I think so? I dunno. But there's another camp down the road," Joe said, plucking a small tin of syrupy fruit from the center of the long, plastic-covered table. "Maybe that's where he's really at, training for next season."

"Isn't this a band camp?" A strident voice carried out through the hall and everyone turned to where Pete Wentz was now standing up on his chair, grinning widely. He had procured a guitar and now strummed it with the air of a born performer, scrunching his face into a crooning mask. "Kum-baaah-yaahh mah looorrrd...kum-baaah-yahhhhh..."

He yelled and ducked as they all threw tins and scraps at him.

 **:: ::**

"Hey, why don't you talk?" Pete asked in a disturbingly forthright manner, seemingly ambushing Patrick on one of his early morning walks. Patrick stumbled at the loud voice coming from behind him, blinking sleepily as Pete ran around and stopped to peer closely in his face. Too close; Patrick reared back and his left hand, with its bandaged fingertips, came up a little on its own accord, as if to fend off attack. Pete smiled and Patrick leaned away a little more. "Andy says you don't talk. Why not?"

"I talk." Patrick glared at him, clutching the hem of his oversized t-shirt with his other hand. Pete was dressed in a bright red jersey and grey shorts, beginning to twist ostensibly from side to side, arms akimbo at his waist. He dropped suddenly to the grass, giving Patrick an unsettling case of vertigo, and began to do some quick push-ups. "Why...are you here?"

"I'm late," Pete explained and tilted his dark head back to grin up at Patrick's deep frown. "We run every morning. I chose to run up to this camp...ten...and run around your nice little field here...eleven...and run back to my camp. Twelve. I usually come earlier, but this morning, I'm late. Fifteen."

"No. That one...was fourteen."

"Damn it." He stopped and rolled over, squinting in the morning sun. "You're pretty. Why do you talk so slow?" He pulled himself into a series of sit-ups as Patrick stroked a self-conscious hand over his own belly.

"Pretty?" He felt the impulse to poke Pete and he was not surprised to see his foot reach out unsteadily and press trainer-clad toes into a hard side. Pete chuckled and shimmied away, his sit-ups getting more complicated: twists, leg-raises, arms getting into the mix. Patrick was fairly used to feeling envious of people who had such easy control over their bodies by now. "I don't talk...slow. Maybe you listen... too fast."

"You may have a point there, Pretty Boy. What's your name?"

"I don't...want to tell you." Patrick felt even more retreating than usual, faced with this apparition of tan and teeth; he tried to soothe himself with _sessions_ and kept coming up with _angel_.

"That's okay. I know it already. Patrick." Pete jumped up and ran in a quick circle around him. "I know all about you. You've only got half a brain, right?"

Patrick really should have felt a deep sense of outrage at this; if he hadn't been looking directly at Pete's face, he might have swung out in wild slowness, hoping to strike the slender bastard, maybe catch him off-guard by total accident. Luckily, he noticed the cautious expression hovering behind Pete's cocky grin, the hopeful slant of his eyes. He took a deep breath and calmed the words barreling up clumsily from his stomach, changing their form and tone before they reached his mouth.

"No." He grinned, trying out the unfamiliar expression on his mouth; he hadn't grinned in a long time. "But if I did... that's half more... than you."

"Ooooh, Pretty Boy here's got jokes! I like that." Pete ran away from him, backwards and Patrick uncharitably hoped for a stone to trip him. Pete smiled widely, shaking his head a little as if he knew exactly what Patrick had been thinking. "Now that I know what time you walk, I'll come and talk to you. Everyday. Until you don't know what to do with yourself."

"Why?" Patrick yelled, watching as he turned and sprinted off, fast and coordinated.

"I like your socks!" Pete shouted back, racing over the slight slope at the edge of the field, in the direction of the parking lot and exit. Patrick looked down at his feet, nonplussed and then rolled his eyes as Pete returned to shout at him again. "Argyle turns me on!"

 **:: ::**

"You think he likes you?" Joe murmured with a curious mixture of shock and curiosity, while a guest droned on about finger-placement and rhythm during one of their sessions. "I mean. _Likes_ you. The way a boy likes a girl. Because that would be kinda weird? But only because he plays soccer. You think he could be gay? He comes here every day and talks to you."

 _Everything about me is weird_ , Patrick thought. Instead he managed, as they strummed idly, "What day... is today?"

"Tuesday." That was one of the many things Patrick liked about Joe; if Patrick went off on a tangent, Joe would rumble along quite comfortably, as if the conversations they had weren't a confusing carnival-ride of words and thoughts. Sometimes Patrick could befuddle _himself_ , but Joe never seemed to be put out. "Why?"

"He said... he likes boys more... on Tuesdays."

"That's so weird." Joe snorted and shook his head, then slanted a knowing look at Patrick. "So. This is kinda fucking stupid to ask, but do you like him? Shit, I feel like a girl."

"You _are_...a girl." Patrick leaned his head against the back of his chair and suddenly let out a low ripple of hoarse laughter. His shoulders fairly shook with it; he didn't know why he was laughing and yet he did. After so long with living a half-life, he felt as if this summer was possibly the best thing ever. "Damn, Joe. Just... damn."

"You okay?" Jon said as he hovered over Patrick, glaring down. "Cause you're kinda causing a commotion."

"Sorry." It was getting better by the second. Jon was annoyed with _him_ , like he would get annoyed at _anyone else_. Patrick adjusted himself in his seat, sitting up and smiling unapologetically. "I'm sorry. It was... Joe's fault."

"Hey!"

"Cut it out," Jon snapped, but his eyes had softened. "Pay attention."

Patrick and Joe ducked their heads to their guitars as the guest speaker droned on more, Jon moving back to his seat and folding his arms, giving them a mock-glare.

"I like him," Patrick whispered and Joe grinned. " _Girl_."

"Fuck off. Isn't he a lot older than you?" Joe wrinkled his brow and then pressed his foot on top of Patrick's. "He gives you any problems, I will go judo on him. Okay?"

Patrick giggled some more, ignoring how it made him feel a little imbalanced.

"A Jew doing... judo?"

"Better recognize," Joe said darkly and Patrick snickered until he snorted. Jon stared at them and slid one finger across his own throat, causing them both to _meep_ at the implied threat.

 **:: ::**

"Hi, Patrick." His sister's voice was soft. Smooth. He smiled into Jon's pilfered cell-phone, imagining the light of the standing lamp in the living room setting off the highlights in her hair. "Having fun?"

"Fingers... hurt."

"Oh, so you're having fun. We were afraid you were going to have... a seizure again."

 _You sound like me now_ , Patrick thought, and kept his mouth shut, listening to her speech; he was distracted completely by laying a bass-line underneath the music of her voice in his head.

"...but the doctors say they got nearly everything and you're fine now. So that's okay."

"I'm not...going to be fine. Never again." Patrick said and then bit his lip; he added in a small taste of horn to his mental track, just for fun. Jazzy.

"You're _still here_ ," she replied with quiet ferocity and Patrick took a long slow breath as the force of her voice skittered the music in his head. " _Nothing else matters_."

"I-" Patrick tried, but she beat him to it.

"Nothing. Are they treating you okay? Are you taking your medication? Have you met someone nice yet?"

"Are you... Mom? Yes. Yes. No?" He answered the last as a question to himself, because he wasn't quite sure what Pete was, anyway. Pete liked to come to a camp that wasn't his. Pete liked to stroll into the lair of the band-campers, blow Andy an extravagant kiss as the drum-major twirled his middle finger in a wavy strand of brown-red hair, surreptitiously flipping Pete the bird. Pete liked to clamber over complaining band-campers, watched closely by the counselors, until he was sitting near or beside Patrick, drawn like a magnet. Last night, he had sung _If I Only Had a Brain_ out-of-tune while eyeing Patrick's plate of food; Patrick had eaten with more gusto than usual.

"Dude, I am on a strict soccer diet," Pete had whined, slurping the syrupy liquid out of an empty mixed-fruits tin. "It's killing me."

"Go away," Joe had said mildly, flicking peas at him. "You're not even supposed to be in this camp. How old are you, anyway?"

"Dude, I came to this camp a couple of times. I was King of Camp. Ask Andy." He fought a little for Patrick's fork. "I'm forever young."

Now, as his sister chattered on to him, Patrick thought that only a person like Pete could claim eternal youth... and look as if he was determined to keep it that way. He was like the best parts of summer: the moments right after the sun set, the trees rustling to each other, spreading secrets between their leaves; the soft, quiet mornings when Patrick huffed around the field, Pete running around wildly, his dark hair falling into his face as he grinned.

When he thought about Pete like that, he was very sorry to recall that every summer had an end.

 **:: ::**

"I LOVE bonfires!" Pete was screeching, trying to pull off his shirt. Joe and Patrick stared bemusedly as he was silhouetted from behind by the roaring flames. There was a small group of marching-band people huddled together on the opposite side of the large fire, obviously relieved at the lack of marching.

"Damn it, Pete, you always do this." Andy was suddenly right beside him, dragging the hem of the garment back down, but not before Patrick caught a glimpse of tantalizing skin and a rash of tattoos. "You're not streaking this year. You're too old for this shit. And I don't want to see it."

"But it's tradition, man."

"Fuck tradition," Andy said. He strolled off in the direction of the marching-band group, whose faces looked simultaneously welcoming and fearful at his approach. "Don't they have bonfires over at your camp?"

"No, they don't. Our camp doesn't believe in the pagan rituals of music and fire under a starlit sky." He tilted his head and gazed at Patrick, the light of the flames glittering in his eyes. Patrick averted his eyes and sat down on a nearby bench; the back of it was angled too far back. He and Joe slumped in it, Patrick rocking his head back to stare at the stars.

"This is so clichéd," Joe murmured in disdain. "In another minute, they'll be bursting out the marshmallows. Oh, here they are!" He laughed in excited delight and then looked sheepish at Patrick's pointed expression. "Dude, I have nothing against clichés, sometimes. I'll get you one." He picked himself off and jogged over to where Andy and Jon were doling out the marshmallows on wooden skewers. Joe was obviously begging for more than his share and while Jon looked as if he would relent, Andy's face was stony.

"Summers are my most favorite time of year," Pete said as he settled in beside Patrick. He yawned and stretched, one hand wriggling under Patrick's neck; Patrick had to raise his head so that Pete could position his arm properly and he rolled his eyes, making sure his hat had not been disturbed by Pete's machinations. The cool stillness was enhanced by the soft strumming of some guitars nearby, the sweet calling of insects in the nearby brush. Patrick, who was not a big fan of anything small and creepy and with more than four legs, was comforted by the soundtrack of the night. He could hear Joe calling Andy a _marshmallow Nazi_ and he wished this moment would never end.

"It's like, they're filled with this nostalgic beauty," Pete continued, sounding sleepy and content, slapping at his bare legs to chase away intrepid mosquitoes. The movement jostled Patrick and he reached up, wrapping his fingers around Pete's hand that was situated right beside his ear. He squeezed and Pete stopped wriggling. "I always get sad because I'll leave summer behind."

"I'll never leave... this summer." Patrick felt a little like crying. He hadn't cried in a long time. "Because... of the tumor. It might... come back. This might be... my last summer. Or not. I don't... know."

There was a sudden silent pool of dark sadness beside him. Patrick squeezed his hand again and Pete twisted it out of his touch, to stroke the curl of Patrick's ear. His fingers were cold.

"Even if I never... have a relapse. I won't be one hundred...percent. I don't concentrate... well. I'll never be able to have... a job. I'll never be... _complete_. I'll be trapped...here. Right in this summer." He felt tired. The fire crackled in front of them and Patrick felt a trail of bitter tears slide down his cheeks and into his ears. Pete's fingers caught at them and brushed them away.

"Can I stay here in this summer with you?" Pete grinned and Patrick could feel the force of it, Pete’s optimism shining against his cheek. "I think this summer would better than any other time of year. Ever."

Patrick blinked, still staring up in the delicate spray of stars and wishing on every single one. A proper song had started, the ubiquitous Kumbaya. The campers were laughing a little scornfully in it, even as they sang. It was soft and low and Patrick thought that maybe they didn't hate the song as much as they claimed, because it sounded so lovely.

" _Oh lord_ ," he sang in a shuddering whisper, as Pete's fingers found the end of his scar and pressed gently and as Joe sat on the other side of him, clutching a bouquet of marshmallows. " _Kumbaya_."

fin


End file.
